


Dues

by buhnebeest



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Play, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Creampie, Duct Tape, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Gags, Heavy BDSM, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Incest, Medical Device, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have to earn your arrogance, Miranda.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RunnerFive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunnerFive/gifts).



> WARNING: MIND THE TAGS BEFORE READING! This is not happy porn. Miranda is gagged and bound throughout the scene, and her consent is never made explicit or even implied. The humiliation in this fic is extreme and not tempered by aftercare or comfort afterwards. Read at your own discretion. 
> 
> ...That said, I hope you enjoy your treat, Piratess XD;

“You think you are worth more than this?” 

The Illusive Man clicks his tongue disapprovingly. Miranda is a beauty, sure, and talented, but she had come to him straight from under Henry Lawson’s wing: he had expected more from her. 

“You were taught better than that, Miranda.” 

Miranda’s answering whimper is muffled through the crumpled wad of her panties stuffed in her mouth, locked inside by a spare strip of duct tape over her lips. Next time, she’ll learn not to wear them. 

The Illusive Man snorts. Even like this, perched on his desk with her wrists bound to her ankles, ass in the air like a bitch in heat, she manages to talk back. 

He prods her cunt with a fingertip, or rather the duct tape covering it. From her perineum to her venus mound she is off limits for now – _pleasure_ is off limits for now – until she learns, until she knows her place. The Illusive Man has often found that nothing quite brings the point home as dismissing one of a girl’s holes as inadequate. _Unworthy_.

In Miranda’s case, three for three is rather more effective. 

The Illusive Man lets his fingers trace up, to the smooth metal of the speculum in her ass, holding her open. Slowly, he cranks the screw, stretching her wider and wider, straining her poor little asshole until she sobs pitifully, thighs trembling. 

“Still not the whole way, and already you’re whining like a spoiled little girl,” the Illusive Man scolds, disgusted. “You think your pretty face will let you get away with a lackluster performance? I’m disappointed in you.” 

He cranks the speculum all the way open, refusing to go slow this time; she has far from earned it. Miranda sobs again, pressing her red face into the cool metal of his desk, eyes squeezed shut. Hiding. 

That won’t do. 

The Illusive Man belts his arm around her middle and heaves her off the desk, puts her down on the floor by his feet. She whimpers at the impact of her knees hitting the hard tile, and again when he grips a handful of her pretty, glossy hair and yanks, craning her neck back, making her watch as he unzips his fly with his free hand. 

“You have to earn your arrogance, Miranda,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over the duct tape over her mouth. “You’re going to put on a little show for me. Moan for me, dance for me. Make me want to come in that filthy little hole of yours, and maybe you’ll be allowed off your knees today.” 

She stares up at him, eyes glistening with tears. The Illusive Man raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting, until finally she moans hesitantly, a tentative facsimile of affected pleasure. When he nods his approval she does it again, louder this time, high little fake moans echoing through his office: perfect. 

The Illusive Man lets go of her hair and gets up, leaning back against his desk with his arms crossed. “And?”

Miranda moans and awkwardly tries to gyrate her hips; impossible with her wrists tied to her ankles like this, body all but folded in half. In the end she has to settle for a stiff little shimmy, wiggling her perfect, billion-credit ass like a clumsy stripper on her first day. 

The Illusive Man smirks, and then chuckles, letting her hear his amusement; a baseline of mockery to match the falsetto of her phony moans. He jacks himself lazily, watching the wide, sore-red gape of her asshole, the metal of the speculum glinting with every shake of her hips. He’s going to jerk off inside there, maybe twice if he’s feeling generous, and then seal her shut with the leftover duct tape still sitting on his desk. 

After that, who knows? Maybe he’ll let her get off her knees after all. Maybe he’ll make her put her silly white catsuit back on, make her go back to work with her holes taped shut and her ass full of his come. Maybe he’ll tell her she’s not allowed to take it off, not even if she has to piss, and see how long it takes before she comes crawling back to him, begging for his magnanimity: maybe she’ll finally match all that arrogance with a little humility after all.


End file.
